


You look like I need a drink

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-23
Updated: 2010-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:26:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy wouldn't fight it, would just take it, breathless and squirming, wrecked and ruined, and maybe he'd scream again, like last night, scream for <em>real</em>--</p>
            </blockquote>





	You look like I need a drink

The morning after, Adam shuffles bits of egg and pepper from one side of the ketchup blob on his plate to the other. Why he thought ketchup would improve stale cardboard masquerading as food, he has no idea. He hates ketchup. Loathes it. He'd have done better dumping half a gallon of maple syrup all over his breakfast.

A weird tingle between his shoulder blades brings his gaze up to land square on Tommy shuffling up to the buffet. Dressed in a slightly wrinkled tee and a pair of black jeans, rubbing at his face and yawning, he looks pretty much the same he does every morning. Except he's favouring his left side a little. Possibly. Adam squints and tilts his head to the side. It could just be that Tommy didn't bother lacing his boots.

Or it could be the mottled bruises hidden beneath Tommy's tee, the ones Adam had known were going to make an appearance but still slapped him in the face, dark and vicious in the sliver of dawn that had crept in through the curtains. The whole thing had been like something out of Hollywood. Waking up to Tommy sprawled out over the wrecked covers, beautiful long lean lines as soft and hazy as the sleep-smile faintly curving his mouth, then the slow-pan, dawning-horror resolution of the thick purple shadows on his hips, the angry red welts cut through them in the perfect shape of Adam's nails.

When Adam's dick had given an interested twitch, he'd scooted so far back so fast he'd tumbled out of the bed onto his feet. Tommy's eyes had opened briefly, his smile spreading out into a sleepily mocking, "Hot stuff," before he sluggishly claimed the warm spot Adam had left behind.

Plate piled high with bacon and cantaloupe, Tommy rounds the head of the table, squeezing behind Monte's chair to flop into the one left sitting conspicuously empty beside Adam's. He pops a bacon-wrapped piece of fruit into his mouth, which is so disgusting, and so, so Tommy, and slings an arm around Adam's waist, snuggling in for a hug hello. Adam returns it, gently, and Tommy huffs, hangs on tighter until Adam's arm slips down to pull him in closer.

Satisfied, Tommy slumps back in his seat, blearily chewing his way through the rest of the good mornings chiming in from around the table. He keeps one arm draped across his stomach, though, hand pressed to marks nobody but Adam can see, that same hazy, happy smile on his face.

*

On the bus two hours later, with Tommy spooned up against his side, breaths slow and rhythmic but promising certain death if he so much as twitches towards the remote with the intention of silencing _Shawn of the Dead_ , Adam decides Tommy is off-limits for at least two days. They've got a show tonight, and another tomorrow. Last night neither of them had gotten much sleep, too high on the novelty of having actual space to crash in, and then Tommy had gleefully declared, "Business time!" between a midnight 7-11 run and whatever pay-per-view movie they hadn't ended up watching.

Declarations of business time usually mean playful blowjobs, Tommy over-exaggerating the sloppy wet sound of Adam's cock in his mouth--which is actually kind of hot, because even humming a cliché porno soundtrack, there's not much better than rolling around in bed with someone who's really, really happy to be there--and orgasms like punchlines, _badum-ching_ ringing through Adam's veins. Except somewhere in the middle of all that, maybe around when Adam flipped Tommy onto his stomach, muffling his laughter in the pillows, fun and easy slipped into something else. Something dark and shady, with Tommy's hitched moans burrowing their way under Adam's skin, sparking a slow-burn low in his belly that fed on the way Tommy shivered and shook beneath him. It made Adam push harder, take more, and Tommy groaned for it, loosed harsh, grating noises that sounded so much like, _Please_. When Tommy's voice broke, pleasure sharper than a razor sliced Adam straight to the core.

So, two days. At the very least. And even though it's for Tommy, time for the soreness to ease, the bruises to fade, there's a squirely, guilty feeling in Adam's gut, like it knows he's really only punishing himself.

*

The pure want roiling off the crowd crashes up against the stage like storm waves on the shore. Adam basks in it, arm raised, voice soaring high, and he knows he's pushing it but it's hard to care when there's a palpable will driving him to give up everything he's got. The manic swell of their cheers whip him from one end of the stage to the other, and he tries to keep his distance, tries to not let them control him. But Tommy's awareness thrums like the bass line through his blood. It tugs at him, impatient, insistent, and in an adrenaline-fueled daze he gives in to it, slings an arm around Tommy's neck and yanks him in chest to back, thigh to ass.

Tommy's mouth falls open on a hot rush of breath. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, just a moment, he stays perfectly still. The beat rises, fever-pitch, and when the break Adam completely forgot about rushes in, Tommy wiggles back, twists, somehow eels his way through the laws of physics to get Adam's arm around his waist. Jostled off balance, Adam's grip goes tight--he seriously doubts he's got another one of those ninja rolls waiting in the wings--and it isn't until Tommy breathes, "Fuck," that he realises his fingers are digging into bruises. He lets go so fast Tommy stumbles, and he tries to recover with a hip-check so it doesn't look quite so much like he just dropped his bassist faster than a hot trend. It works, mostly, and even if Tommy's used to Adam's about-faces, there's a flash of disappointment in his eyes. Guilt a festering lump in Adam's chest, he flicks back a chunk of Tommy's hair, ghosts his fingers through the glitter dusting Tommy's cheek, and swings off into the next verse before he does something insane like kiss away the hurt with a thousand cameras going off right in front of his face.

*

A commotion near the front of the bus startles Adam out of his Twitter stupor. He always has the best intentions about how long he spends trawling through his feed. The sad truth is people love to bitch, and some days it feels like he's living life in a petri dish, routinely dissected for the enjoyment of faceless sociopaths all hooked up on the same endless IV of negativity. But he's worried about how his fuck-up on stage tonight is going to backlash on Tommy. Bizarrely, every single rave review he reads worsens the sickly twist in his belly. Like when he finally stumbles across a bad one, it's going to be _really_ bad, fucking horrendous, and he'll be awake all night fervently hoping it slips off into the ether before Tommy sees it.

When the laughter from the front doesn't fade, he tosses his phone aside and pads to the door, poking his head out to see what the hell Terrence is up to this time to have Sasha cracking up so damn hard.

"Holy shit," Adam says, words flying out of his mouth like a flock of startled birds.

It's Tommy up there, standing on a couch shaking his ass in a vague approximation of Terrence's intro, eyes lit up brighter than New York at night. Terrence whistles, howls, slaps Tommy's thigh and tells him to put some hip into it, and Tommy drops down into a crouch instead, knees bent and splayed wide, head back, hand hooked on the back of the couch and his spine curved in an arch so sharp Adam's gives a sympathetic twinge.

Sasha shouts, "Woo, yeah!" clapping her hands above her head, and Terrence demands, "Now wiggle it!"

Adam holds his breath. Despite what some crazy fundamentalist theorists are saying, he's only mortal, and fuck knows he's only a man, and he would very much like to see Tommy wiggle it. For a second it even seems like he's going to, but no, all his planets are not aligned, his stars have abandoned him, and Tommy stumble-falls sideways onto the couch as soon as he looks up to find Adam standing there. Adam winces.

"Hey," Tommy says, grinning crookedly as he drags hair out of his eyes.

"Your boy's not half bad," Terrence says, and a short, sharp laugh bursts out of Tommy. "Could be worse, could be worse!"

Rolling off the couch onto his feet, Tommy says, "Not by very fucking much," but he's still smiling, bopping knuckles with Terrence on his way by, heading straight for the back of the bus and Adam. "Later."

"Yeah, yeah," Terrence says, waving him off, and Sasha calls, " _Now_ wiggle it."

Ruefully shaking his head--his troupe literally _is_ busloads of crazy--Adam steps back to let Tommy in. The guys probably think it's a total booty call. Which isn't to say Adam is at all above those, just that this time, it isn't. It's usually pretty easy to tell when Tommy wants some, and it's not like Adam is shy about it, not around their friends, but it'd seemed like his no-Tommy plan was going off without a hitch.

There's a fucking big hitch in it now, though, and it's called Tommy flaked out on the bed, one hand tucked beneath his head while he fiddles with Adam's phone.

"Oh, hey, no," Adam says, snatching at it, but Tommy's a quick little shit.

"It's all good," Tommy says, and that's one of the three billion things Adam loves about him. He doesn't say, _Hey, maybe you should just try not giving a shit,_ like Neil's well-intentioned misguided advice, or _Fuck 'em, fuck 'em all,_ , which would be a completely Tommy thing to say. He gets the thin line Adam's chosen to walk, caring about the fans, listening to them, but not so much that they change who he is. "You were a fucking force of nature tonight."

Adam says, "Awesome crowd," taking the phone when Tommy hands it over, stuffing it randomly into one of his bags. "What's up?"

Both eyebrows raised, Tommy plants a foot square on the bed, drops a hand to his cock and gives a slow, grinding roll of his hips.

And there's no way in hell that sort of thing should hit Adam as hard as it does. He's not a teenager anymore, sprouting wood every time some guy looks at him sideways. It's like Tommy's somehow figured out how to hardwire his dick while he was sleeping. All the good intentions in the world are not enough for him to say no to Tommy Joe sprawled out on his bed asking for it.

Then he remembers that Terrence and Sasha are right outside, and even if they already know exactly what's going on back here, that doesn't mean they should have to sit through the show. Right as Adam opens his mouth to say so, the front door thunks shut. One of them thumps the side of the bus from the outside, all good wishes, have fun.

"What did you do," Adam says sourly, "stick a sock on the doorknob?"

Hitching up his shirt, baring a pale sliver of belly, Tommy flicks open his belt.

"Okay!" Adam says, high-pitched, defeated. "Okay, you win." He drops a knee to the mattress and curls one hand beneath Tommy's belt, using it to drag him closer to the edge. "I wasn't gonna eat dinner anyway."

"Gonna eat something," Tommy says, lifting up impatiently when Adam tugs at his fly.

"You are so horrible. And gorgeous," Adam adds, wriggling Tommy's jeans down over his hips. "God, you are so fucking pretty. Look at that pretty little cock of yours."

"Watch it, size queen," Tommy warns, mock-scowl falling straight off his face as Adam wraps a hand snug around his dick. For a mouthy fucker--and a mouthy _fuck_ , shit, the noises Tommy makes when he's got a dick up his ass--shutting Tommy up is sinfully easy. He's still a little soft when Adam goes down on him, so it's not much work to take most everything he's got. One of these days, if Adam ever figures out a way to wear Tommy out first, Adam's going to suck him while he's all the way soft, see how crazy that light in Tommy's eyes goes then. Adam's almost sure it'd be too much for him, nerves buzzing painfully and shorting out, but Tommy thrives on that scary-excess, keeps going long after everybody else Adam's ever been with would've thrown up the white flag.

A hot rush of blood makes Tommy's cock twitch against Adam's tongue, and Adam tosses the idea out for now, concentrating instead on how Tommy shifts fitfully but won't grab, holds on but won't force, and how fucking hot is that, anyway. It's not that Tommy's some sort of limp-fish passive fuck, that he doesn't ask for what he wants. More like he really fucking loves the anticipation, the build up, the strain of wanting more but waiting for it.

When his fingers lace with Adam's near his hip, Adam breaks off to nuzzle a kiss to the inside of his thigh. Lazy and slow is good. The high from the show is still there, humming beneath Adam's skin, banked for now and easy to bask in. He's not at all prepared for the insistent tug Tommy gives his hand, flattening his fingers against rich purple-blue bruises, pressing _in_ so hard Adam can feel the tender, angry heat of blood brought so close to the surface.

Adam goes to pull away and Tommy says, "Don't," grip vising onto Adam's wrist, startlingly strong. He's so much smaller than Adam it's too easy to forget how strong he really is. His voice is thin, rough, a rasp of sand against glass like the dust storm they drove through leaving Nevada. "It's good, I like it," and he digs Adam's fingertips in harder, brow furrowing, pain lilting through his words, "really fucking like it."

A dark twist of lust laces sneakily through Adam's blood. He ignores the heavy throb of his dick to suck harder on Tommy's, hoping it'll distract them both from the bruises hot beneath Adam's fingers. But Tommy's writhing pulls the sheets untucked, and the quick puff of his breath turns to ragged moans as he presses on Adam's hand so hard it starts to hurt. Adam's wildly grateful that they don't have an audience for this because Tommy is loud, and getting louder. Later, once they're cooled down, cuddled up for awhile, Adam's going to remember how fucking hot Tommy going so crazy for him is. Right now it's throwing him for a total loop. He's good with his mouth in a lot of ways, fucking proud of it, too, but all of a sudden that whole thing flies out of his head. His teeth don't just catch on the ridge of Tommy's dick, they dig in, he can actually _feel_ the shock of pain that reverberates up through Tommy's body and out through his mouth in a choked-off scream.

Adam jerks back, barely enough time to take in what the hell's going on before Tommy comes all over the horrified apology ready to leap off his tongue. His eyes snap shut just in time. It occurs to him in a daze that he doesn't have to kneel there taking a shot in the face, but he's so startled he's helpless to really do anything else.

When he decides it's safe, he carefully wipes away the warmth clinging to his eyebrow and opens his eyes. Tommy is slumped back on the bed, hand wrapped loosely around his cock, chest heaving and mouth slack. His eyes are wide and glassy, and every so often his fingers, still laced with Adam's, twitch.

"Um, okay," Adam says slowly.

And then Tommy starts laughing, breathless and blissed-out and crazy.

*

"Coffee," Adam croaks in the morning, groping zombie-like at whoever's standing in front of the pot like a total cockblocking bitch.

"Morning," Taylor starts, turning around with a smile, then, "hey, wow, okay," when Adam fumbles the cup out of his hands. He scratches the back of his neck. "Rough night?"

Taylor puts way too much sugar in his coffee, and milk instead of cream, which is so disgusting it's almost enough to make it undrinkable. But even Adam's fucking mitochondria are clamouring for caffeine, stridently drowning out his cringing taste buds, and he gulps down half the mug in one go. While he waits for it to kick in, he grabs the carafe to top up. The next mouthful is only vaguely revolting. Adam sighs happily.

One side of his mouth screwed up, Taylor peers around Adam to where the door to his room is hanging open. "Wow," he says again, eyes going round. "Wow."

"What," Adam grunts, grudgingly following his gaze.

Tommy is sprawled out facedown on the bed, naked, really, really naked, the sheets in a tangle somewhere around his feet, one arm dangling over the side. There's a fucking hickey on his rib cage the size of a motherfucking golfball. He lifts his hand in a brief wave.

"You should," Taylor says, pushing at Adam's shoulder and pointing. "'Cause."

Intelligently, Adam says, "Coffee," as if that one word can encompass his entire explanation of, _Oh shit, I'm sorry, can't think without caffeine in the morning at the best of times, you know how the whole night-long fuckfest thing goes, ha-ha, isn't that funny._

But Adam has the very best luck in the world. All the people around him are awesome, and understanding, and find his bizarre little quirks endearing. Taylor gives him a reassuring pat on the arm-- _What's a few naked bassists between friends?_ \--and sends him on his way with a second mug for the mauled and pathetic creature flaked out in his bed.

*

Sometime around noon that day, Adam's brain finally comes back online. He's seriously considering using this newfound consciousness to have a quiet freak out about practically shoving naked, fucked-out Tommy in Taylor's face, which he thinks would be cathartic and possibly quite healthy. Instead he spends his time petting Tommy's hair while he drinks his third cup of coffee for the day (Tommy generously sacrificed his cup to Adam's wake-the-fuck-up cause; he has yet to commit to a similar plan of action) and thinks about the absolutely amazing sex he spent last night having.

Ten hours ago, if Adam had been presented with the whole accidental facial thing, preceded by the very, very accidental almost-bit-Tommy's-dick-off thing, he'd have written it off as disastrous. Possibly deal-breaking. By the time Tommy roused from his post-orgasmic stupor, Adam had swung back around from stupidly turned on to mortified.

The first thing out of Tommy's mouth, though, was, "Fuck, get up here and fuck me."

And _really_ , what the hell was he supposed to do, say no? The specifics of what happened after that are a total loss, but there are images burned into his brain, brief snapshot moments: Tommy with both hands knotted up in the pillowcase, the pliant, fucking _sinful_ spread of his legs; how he'd rolled over afterward, loose and boneless and only halfway to hard, and let Adam fuck up into him again, clutching at the edge of the mattress. Adam wouldn't put cash down on it or anything, but he's pretty sure Tommy didn't come that second time around, didn't even care, didn't even _try_.

"Click, click," Tommy mumbles lazily, eyes still closed. "Click, click, click."

Adam makes a vague humming noise, questioning.

"You," Tommy answers, "thinking. Click, click, click. Let it go, man."

"I could be thinking about something really important," Adam says, tugging on a lock of Tommy's hair curled around his finger.

Yawning, Tommy rubs his cheek against Adam's thigh, waking up but not quite so far along as to consider actually opening his eyes yet. "Nothing's that fucking important."

"It could be," Adam says, kind of annoyed that Tommy just arbitrarily wrote off the last forty-five minutes of his life.

"Okay." Tommy's eyes slit open, dark and beautiful. "What're you thinking about?"

Adam opens his mouth, then closes it again. He's not sure how to distill all that down to a single succinct sentence. This is his problem with Twitter. There's just too much to say.

"Sex," Tommy declares, a sly slant to his mouth. "Sex with me, and how fucking fantastic it is, and how next time you're gonna hold me down while you dick me." He stretches languorously, a lazy cat in the sun, and shoves up onto one elbow, mouth tilted up for a kiss. "Sounds good, right?"

"Baby, I don't need to hold you down to make it good," Adam says, and gives him one quick peck, two.

Tommy's smile slips into something small and mischievous. "Doesn't mean you don't want to."

Adam frowns into his coffee. That's really not the point.

"Doesn't mean I don't want you to," Tommy says, and plants a hand on the bed between Adam's thighs, scooting up so they're eye to eye. "Fucking think about it. How hot would that shit be? You could just really fucking give it to me, like really just go for it," and he ends on a sharp grunt of breath, as if it's so hot there honestly are no fucking words.

And it _is_ that hot. Adam's had more sex in the last forty-eight hours than since the whirlwind week when he and Tommy first fell into bed together, desperate and lust-drunk and chasing orgasm after orgasm like any second somebody would snatch the chance away. The image burrows into his brain, how he could use Tommy like he wants to be used, fuck him until the thin line of pleasure tripped over into pain and Tommy wouldn't fight it, would just take it, breathless and squirming, wrecked and ruined, and maybe he'd scream again, like last night, scream for _real_ \--

Ice cold dread jolts down Adam's spine. His grip on the mug's gone white-knuckled, and Tommy's hands are wrapped around his on it, calloused and warm, trying to pry it out of his grip before coffee goes fucking everywhere.

"Oh shit, yeah," Tommy says, sliding it haphazardly into the holder near the top of the bed, rolling back to press his mouth roughly to Adam's, "told you, I fucking told you," between kisses as messy and sloppy as the ones seconds before he loses it.

It takes everything Adam's got to say, "Hang on, wait," but he gets it out, and Tommy backs off, somehow still smiling, like he seriously doesn't have a fucking clue Adam's one deep breath away from flipping his shit. And the thought that Tommy could be so clueless makes him take a step back, really _look_ at himself, and alright--maybe that tent in his sweats doesn't look so much like an impending freakout. Or the hand he's got twined in Tommy's hair, holding him close instead of easing back.

"Hotel night on Wednesday," Tommy says, eyelashes sweeping down as his gaze refocuses on Adam's mouth.

"Right," Adam manages, so turned on he's sick with it.

*

It's two whole days to Wednesday, and both of them whoosh straight by. For a few hours after they stop for something freshly cooked for breakfast on Monday, Tommy heads back to the other bus, hiding out to do his decompressing thing. The rest of the day is eaten up by travel time, the road divided between True Blood marathons and chasers of campy B horrors.

Adam had tried to mellow out, flipping on some Goldfrapp to help his mind blank, but any good that had done vanished the second Tommy slunk back onto the bus with Longineu in tow. He's keyed up, hyper-aware of Tommy's thigh pressing in all along his, the way Tommy fits under his arm, the steady electric hum of what's waiting at the end of this road tightening his nerves.

"Boss man needs to burn off some excess," Longineu says when Sasha crawls forward to change the discs.

Tommy takes a hit off his beer, everything from the curve of his mouth around it to the lazy sprawl of his knees saying, _Been there, done that_ , and Longineu laughs, shakes his head.

By Tuesday night, Adam is going out of his fucking mind. He can't stop thinking about what the hell he's going to do, if he's going to let Tommy down easy, or if he should go with it, or if it's all going to blow up in his face no matter what. It spills out into the show the only way Adam knows how, pure prowling aggression that the crowd loves, and by third costume change he's so fucking hard he aches. Every time Tommy's close it's like Adam can fucking _smell_ him, sweet in all the right places, pliant, willing, perfect. Adam's got no illusions about Tommy holding his own if it came down to something dirty like a back-alley scrap, but Adam's not some nameless bruiser, Tommy _trusts_ him.

And all Adam really wants to do with that trust right now is use it to make Tommy scream.

After the show, and the rush through the starburst flash of fans outside, Adam hightails it to the hotel. He's got a half-hour at most before Tommy comes knocking on his door, and he's got this build up of frenetic energy inside him that he doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to do with. He tries showering off the concert, a cup of herbal tea from the selection on the side table, a quick run-through of the sound issues at the beginning and how he's going to deal with that for tomorrow night.

None of it helps, and then it's too late, he's opening the door to let Tommy slip inside. He braces for an armful of horny and touch-hungry, but what he gets is a long, steady look and, "You gonna tell me what the fuck's up with you?"

Adam huffs out an unsteady laugh. "Straight for the jugular, every fucking time."

"You don't hold shit back," Tommy says with a shrug, moving further into the room to purposefully nudge the half-full mug of cold tea with two fingers. "You don't get to hold shit back from me, and you're about to vibrate out of your fucking skin, so. Give it up."

Adam's not really sure how to say what's in his head, and with anybody else, maybe he'd give it more thought, couch it in careful terms. It isn't anyone, though, it's Tommy, and Adam says, only a bit like ripping off a band-aid, "I kind of really want to hurt you."

Both of Tommy's eyebrows wing up.

"Like, _hurt_ you," Adam says, and he can feel the ramble coming on like a bad case of the stomach flu, words vomited everywhere, but he's powerless to stop it. "I get off on it. I get off on it so hard, and you have no idea what you look like when you think you're ready but you're really not, when it hurts just a little, and that is in no way me saying it's anything like your fault, or like you're asking for it or some way out there fucked up shit like that, this is all on me, my fault, but fuck, Tommy, the way you just take it."

When Tommy doesn't say anything, Adam yanks the hand he'd buried in his hair free, flails it vaguely in Tommy's direction. "Say something."

"Oh," Tommy says, corner of his mouth turned down. "I thought you were actually gonna make a fucking point or something."

Adam's mouth clicks shut. He swallows twice before he can say, "I just told you I got off on hurting you, Tommy. _That is the fucking point_."

"Oh," Tommy repeats. "Um, yeah. Kinda knew that one already."

Closing his eyes, Adam counts to five. Maybe the words he thinks are coming out of his mouth aren't the words Tommy's hearing.

"Nope, I can hear you just fine," Tommy says, and unzips his hoodie, flings it over the back of a chair as if Adam's invited him in for a friendly game of Parcheesi, not confessed to secretly harbouring sexually sadistic tendencies. Apparently not very successfully with the secret part, but harbouring nonetheless. "You haul me around on stage five nights out of seven by my hair, I'd have to be pretty dense if I didn't notice you got off on it. And that's aside from the whole, like, sleeping with you thing."

"Okay, so now I'm slightly less in love with you than I was five minutes ago," Adam says, scowling, because Tommy possibly could've softened the delivery on that one a little bit, "but the issue here is that I don't want to like hurting you, I definitely don't want to get off on it, and-"

"You mean you don't think you should like it," Tommy cuts in. "Y'know, sometimes your worldview's kinda narrow."

Adam's eyes narrow. "Alright, _hey_."

"Sorry," Tommy says, and even with a smile still plastered across his face at least he sounds contrite. "But, I mean." He waves a hand, as if that's going to help. "I like it, you like it, we're both pretty sure you're not going to murder me mid-coitus," and he lets it hang, waiting for Adam's hasty, "Right," before shrugging again. "You're gonna have to run the whole thing by me again, where there's a problem," he finishes.

Put like that it's all nice and neat and logical, but somewhere between Adam's brain and his belly, logic dissolves into a hot flutter of knife-wielding butterflies.

"Okay," Tommy says, quietly assessing, moving closer to slip both hands beneath Adam's shirt, blunt nails running along just above the band of his jeans. "Tell me how you wanna do it. You wanna punch me in the face?"

"No," Adam huffs, brushing that aside. He settles his arms over Tommy's shoulders, mostly because he's there, it feels nice, and this way he can get his fingers carding through the short hair at Tommy's nape. "I want-" and he stops, seriously thinks about it without focusing first on the thrill squirming oil-slick in his gut, and it clicks into place that they've already done what he wants, he just wants _more_ of it. So he says, "I want this," hand ghosting over the bruises fading on Tommy's hip, "I want you strung out so bad you'd scream except you can't even fucking breathe."

"Sounds like a fucking good time to me," Tommy says, hands flattening out across the small of Adam's back, pulling him in to feel the press of Tommy's cock going hot, thick.

Adam can't help it. He says, "Yeah?" and means it, needs to hear it.

"Yeah," Tommy says, an afterthought; he's already leaning up to bring their mouths together, his tongue skimming over Adam's bottom lip, an invitation for Adam to slide on in. Adam's not one to say no to a bit of quality making out, so he does, and right when he's getting into it, Tommy says, soft, insidious, against his mouth, "Give me some teeth."

There's nothing new here--he's marked Tommy up before, bitten marks into places where they linger for days unseen by anybody but him. That's the heat of the moment, though, not this calculated, deliberate thing, Tommy's bottom lip caught between his teeth, sharp edges digging in hard and harder again when Tommy's nails dig into his back. It's good, it's _fantastic_ , making out with Tommy is right up there on the list of things he loves to do, but it isn't until Tommy makes a noise, quiet and _hurt_ , that a bright spark twists through Adam's blood.

"Don't stop," Tommy says, slurred against Adam's mouth, "don't fucking stop," and Adam forces past the urge to back off, turns it into a rough-edged kiss.

The tension holding Tommy tight bleeds out in a muffled groan. Somehow he's loose and boneless and really fucking insistent all at once. He starts walking backwards, both hands fisted in the back of Adam's shirt dragging him along. Warning bells start shrieking in Adam's head. They should... do something if they're going to do this. Talk about limits, boundaries, fucking safewords.

"Don't think about it," Tommy says, a sneaky hand already wormed inside Adam's jeans, palming his cock. "It's not like it's a scene or something, like I'm gonna go so deep I can't say no. Go with it. Give me what you want."

"God, okay," Adam says, a total white flag. He doesn't have enough left to deal with the implications of what Tommy's just said, but it's burrowed its way into his brain, and later, once Tommy lets him get a fucking word in edgewise, he's going to ask. And as soon as that decision's made, there's room in his head for what they're about to do right now, that Tommy's peeling off clothes, baring endless miles of smooth, pale skin that Tommy wants him to mark.

Fitting his hand to Tommy's throat is easy. Even easier still when Tommy's eyelashes flutter and mouth goes soft. It's fucking scary how easy it is to tighten his grip, to kiss Tommy until he's breathless, squirming, and to keep doing it. There's a part of him waiting for Tommy to resist, hoping for and dreading it, but it doesn't happen. When Tommy starts to sink down to the bed, Adam jerks him upright, and the sound, surprised, hurt, _grateful_ , that comes bursting out of Tommy's mouth shoots straight to his dick.

"You really like that, baby?" Adam murmurs, teeth scraping the shell of Tommy's ear, bright metal rings clinking.

Tommy shivers, says, "Yeah." He presses closer, his cock a hard, hot line grinding against Adam's thigh, already wet at the tip. "Fuck, this is going to be so fucking good."

There are a few doubts lurking darkly around the edges of Adam's mind, but he does his best to push them aside. This time when Tommy goes down, he follows, staying on his knees as Tommy stretches out beneath the slow slide of his hands. And when he reaches Tommy's hips, the shadows that are still lingering there, he fits his fingers to them one by one, pushes in.

Tommy's reaction is instant, perfect. Shivers race through him and spill out in a hitched moan. Adam tightens his grip again, slowly and deliberately, biting at the sharp wing of Tommy's collarbone as the edge of his nails dig bluntly into flesh. Tommy makes this beautiful, ragged noise, and Adam has to stop for a second, breathe.

"Stuff," Adam explains, stretching up to give Tommy a quick peck on the lips so he doesn't think this is Adam pussying out or anything. Except it sort of is. All he can see is how Tommy's going to writhe for him, all he can hear are the screams Tommy's going to choke on, and his mouth's dry, tongue gone thick, clumsy. He wants it so bad he can fucking taste it, sharp and ferrous like blood, like the edge of a blade.

The few seconds it takes him to grab up the lube and some condoms isn't enough. He's off-balance already, teetering on the precipice of something really fucking important, and it just knocks him closer to the edge when Tommy grins, kicks the condoms he drops onto the bed to the floor. "Gonna go rough and messy," Tommy says, rising smoothly up to his knees, skimming an open-mouthed kiss along Adam's jaw before turning around to settle back down, a pillow tugged close to his chest to rest on.

Things go a little hazy then, a little unreal. The lube's cool on Adam's fingers, Tommy's skin hot, hotter again on the inside. With a hitch in his heartbeat, he makes it two fingers instead of one, biting his lip as he forces slight resistance to give way. Tommy rolls back into it, and he can't see the look on Tommy's face beneath the feather of blond hair fallen across it, but he can hear it, feel it in Tommy's shudder. He keeps going where he'd normally pause, give Tommy a second to adjust, and hooks his other hand on the jut of Tommy's hip, hauling him back into the hard shove of his fingers.

"Fuck, like that," Tommy groans, twisting so Adam can see his face, so he can see Adam's. His knees skid wider, the sharp curve of his spine deepening. "Do me like that."

And Tommy is a little like a porno soundtrack at the best of times, but they're barely even into it and he sounds like he's going to go off any second. Panic flares brightly in Adam's belly, like there's not enough time to make it good, and Tommy's saying, "C'mon, slick it up, shove it in," with a catch to his voice, making Adam fumble the lube. A mess of it leaks onto the coverlet when he doesn't get the cap on right before dropping it.

"Yeah, fuck," Tommy says, arching into the blunt push of Adam's cockhead at his hole. He's too tight still. Adam flashes back to the first time they did this, Tommy's hole so fucking tiny beneath his fingers, how it'd taken fucking forever to open him up. It's like that now except instead of his fingers it's his cock, and he can feel how Tommy's body resists it, a desperate, fluttering clench of muscle grudgingly letting him in. He makes the mistake of glancing up at Tommy's face. Tommy's eyes are squeezed shut, lip bleached white around the hard dig of teeth, and lust explodes in Adam's stomach, shrapnel shredding his veins.

"Tommy," Adam tries, because he wants too much now. There's a thin thread left on his control and he's terrified of what he'll do when it snaps. He knows it's going to snap. He can feel it strung tight, thrumming.

And Tommy says, "C'mon, lemme," and shoves back, fucks himself onto Adam's cock while Adam's hand slaps to his hip with the intention of making him hold on just a fucking second. But Adam's the one who ends up holding on, fingers digging in hard as Tommy makes his body open up for Adam's cock, taking it inch by tortuously slow inch with this look on his face like it hurts, honestly fucking hurts, and it's the best thing he's ever felt.

Adam breaks. He fists a hand in Tommy's hair, yanks him up and back and screws the rest of it home. The muted slap of flesh on flesh drives a wordless noise out of Tommy as helpless and ruined as Adam feels. But now that Adam has this much, he wants more, and some small-voiced sliver of his brain says he knew this was going to happen. Knew, and didn't really try to stop Tommy from making him do it. Driving in deep, the whole fucking way, he skids his hands up to Tommy's belly and starts easing back onto his haunches, pulling Tommy back with him. By the time he's got Tommy seated on his lap, ass stuffed full, Tommy's a shivering mess. It only gets worse when Adam gives in to the nasty urge to rake his nails up the insides of Tommy's thighs, and worse again as he keeps going up over Tommy's hips, chest, covering all that pale skin in red-hot crisscross scratches. He's barely even fucking Tommy while he does it, just a few shallow grinding thrusts that jostle all these gorgeous, broken noises out of him.

Noises that sound like, _Fuck, please_ , and, _don't stop_. Even if Adam's a little worried that's not what they mean at all, it's too fucking amazing to believe they do. When Tommy's head falls back against Adam's shoulder, baring the long, smooth slope of his neck, Adam doesn't even think before setting teeth to it. He bites harder than he's ever deliberately done before, sucks on the flesh mounded between his teeth with the intention to mark, and fucking feels the jolt of pain that shoots through Tommy, muscles snapping tight, heartbeat tripping.

And then he clicks in on how Tommy's squirming in his arms, desperately trying to fuck down onto Adam's cock when all the strength has already bled out of him. It comes back in fits and starts, and he manages to get a little higher, rock down a little stronger. Adam licks at the dents his teeth left in Tommy's flesh, ruining the ghost of a rhythm he's aiming for, and Tommy groans at him, thready and pleading.

All it takes is one good snap of Adam's hips to loose Tommy's voice. He says, "Fucker, put me down and fuck me, fucking _fuck_ me, you call this shit rough," and Adam knows what he's doing, taunting like that. Maybe, if they weren't already so far into it, it wouldn't work. Adam would be able to laugh it off, make it sweet like he loves it between them.

But Adam loves this, too, and want is a vicious, snarling ache in his gut. He plants a hand square in the middle of Tommy's back and shoves him off his lap, off his cock. Tommy sucks in a startled breath, his reaction time fucked all to hell so he ends up sprawled on the bed with his ass up, caught awkwardly on one elbow. "Oh, fuck yeah," Tommy says, hand slapped to his ass, spreading it wide. "C'mon, c'mon."

Blood buzzing in Adam's brain, he sets one hand to the base of Tommy's spine, grabs his dick up in the other and drives it straight home. Tommy's words go to grunts as he pulls out all the way, pushes back in, rough and steady, over and over again. When Tommy starts to sink down like it's too much for him to take, Adam grabs onto his elbow, yanks him right back up again. His shocked gasp sinks into Adam like claws. This is what Tommy wanted. This is what Tommy's going to fucking _get_. Adam grabs at his other arm, holds him up off the bed on his knees, his shoulder blades tightly bunched and his head bowed, and fucks him. No rhythm, no style, just the rough and steady pound of Adam's dick into his sweet, pink little hole.

And Tommy fucking _moans_ for it, whorish and slutty and free. He twists in Adam's grip, not trying to get loose but Adam holds on tighter anyway, fingers aching and body screaming at him to take a little more, push a little harder, Tommy can handle it. Tommy's arms end up folded against his back, pinned there, long before Adam's had a chance to even think about it, and it looks so, so good when Adam shoves his chest down flush to the bed. On the peak of a thrust Tommy bucks and goes still, and later Adam's going to quietly freak out over how that didn't give him pause, how he didn't even _think_ he might've hurt Tommy for real. He barely has time to register it when it happens, so caught up in the pleasure whipping through his veins at the way Tommy's writhing has gone weak, helpless, pinned-butterfly beautiful.

He's not ready for it to be over when orgasm punches the breath from his lungs. He wants to hear Tommy scream for him first, full-throated and crackling, wants to feel Tommy shatter beneath him, collapse in a gasping heap, used and ruined. But he's got no control left, not even the fond hope of it, and he seizes Tommy by the hips instead, hauls him straight back onto his cock as far as he'll go and holds him there, white-knuckled grip mottling flesh. Even then Tommy doesn't keep still for long, rocking and moaning, tiny little shaky jerks of his hips.

As soon as Adam can, he says, "Baby, s'alright, gonna take care of you," and goes for Tommy's dick. A long, thin trail of precome breaks on his fingers. He stops short when he finds Tommy's thighs wet. "Fuck, you didn't," he breathes, and cups Tommy's softening cock. He wouldn't fucking believe it, except the evidence is right there, smeared all over Tommy's skin and staining the sheets.

Sluggishly, like somebody drugged, Tommy pushes himself up to his knees. He sways unsteadily until Adam catches him, then turns halfway around, eyes glassy-drunk, and says, "Fuckin' kiss me."

He's so fucking pliable when Adam does, willing to be bent any way Adam wants to make him, tilting his head back at the tiniest nudge and opening up with a raspy groan to let Adam lick into his mouth. He's clumsy when he tries to kiss back, unfocused, everything from the way he moves to the beat of his heart wavering, disconnected. The longer Adam kisses him, sweet, soft nips, slow little tonguefucks, the more he evens out until he's sighing, sinking blissfully back against Adam.

Almost an apology, Adam touches the angry, blood-speckled marks on Tommy's side. "Gonna be sore in the morning."

"Sore now," Tommy says, stretching lazily, self-satisfied. He looks down at himself and laughs. "Did a fucking number on me, didn't you."

"I," Adam starts, and there it is. The seeping, tar-like rise of ugly, bitter guilt.

But Tommy short-circuits the whole thing by leaning up to kiss him the corner of his mouth, saying, "Thanks," like it's all so simple, so easy. "Wanna go cuddle in that fucking ridiculous bathtub you've got? Bet there are bubbles."

"I," Adam repeats, stunned, and then he lets his hands run up Tommy's chest like they want to, over smooth skin and hot, thick welts. He can imagine what Tommy'll feel like in the water, soothed and mellow, slippery-slick. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds pretty amazing."

"Awesome," Tommy says, and gives him a fond pat on the thigh. "But you get to carry me, 'cause you like, fucked my legs right out from under me."

Helpless laughter bubbles up in the back of Adam's throat. He puts his forehead on Tommy's shoulder and lets it spill free, all hitched, hiccuping giggles, and when Tommy hums contentedly, ruffling his hair, all that's left for him to do is laugh harder.


End file.
